Anyway, I’ll tell you what I told them: I never witnessed Bobby act inappropriately. But it’s not like men necessarily advertise this sort of behavior, you know? I believe women. That’s my stance. I admire what Eva did, coming forward like that.
Besides, that place was like a cult. It was one big game of Almanacs vs. New Yorkers—and the Almanacs always won. If you didn’t live in Alma, all you had to look forward to was middle management, and even that was a long shot. All the upper-management positions were reserved for the townies. Just look at the department heads. Not a single New Yorker. Except for Goddard, who had a good run, but then he was fired. I wasn’t surprised.
You live there. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. If you want to fit in, you have to move there and start drinking the Kool-Aid, act like Alma is the Best Place on Earth. And I could never leave New York. That’s why I left.
Do I regret it? No, not exactly. I’m not entirely convinced things have changed. New leadership doesn’t always equal a new culture. You probably know more about that than me, actually. It’s not like I keep up with what’s going on there, though I did read the article that came out. The one in Vanity Fair?
Speaking of which, can I ask you a question? That girl Malaika? Is she as pretty as her pictures? I’m single again.
Twenty-Nine
Malaika
Saturday, October 12th
Malaika looks out the window of the moving train.
It’s dark out, which is why she can catch a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. She looks nervous: fluttering eyelids, corners of her mouth heavy with tension. This makes sense—she feels nervous.
Malaika looks down at her blood-red pumps, black clutch, and scarlet coat. Underneath the coat she’s wearing a black dress. Had she realized the all black-and-red combination before leaving the house? It makes Malaika think of pieces on the checkerboard she had a kid, the one she’d played on with her mom on Sundays. Malaika misses her mom. For a moment, she wishes she were back home. She wishes she weren’t on a train on her way to a job.
That’s how she’s thinking of it. An unusual, but perfectly respectable job.
She is not a prostitute. She is, or rather she will be, an escort for the night. All she’s agreed to do is accompany a man named Simon Caulfield to an event. She’ll pretend to be his date—possibly his girlfriend—but that’s it. Andy has assured her that Simon won’t expect anything beyond the occasional kiss on the cheek and some handholding. Totally doable, especially for US$400.00.
Andy had approached her at the playground at Hildegard Park two days after they saw each other at Calan’s place.
“Did I read you right?” he had asked. “Are you looking to make some extra cash?”
“I’m not interested in being a dealer,” she had said. Calan had already warned her about the potential legal repercussions. Convicted felons did not become famous designers.
“A girl who looks like you doesn’t have to sell drugs to make money,” he had said.
She had been offended when he first told her about working as an escort. She was not comfortable having sex in exchange for money. But then Andy swore she wouldn’t have to do anything.
“Think of it as being paid to go on a date—and you don’t have to put out. I have a buddy who runs a small operation. He can hook you up if you want. He only keeps thirty percent of what you make. Most places keep fifty.”
Malaika had been tempted, but nervous. She had racked her brain thinking of other ways she could raise the money, but she kept drawing a blank.
“I really won’t have to do anything?”
“Nothing,” Andy had assured her. “It’s totally legit. It’s basically for loser guys who can’t get dates and want to show up at places and have everyone else think they’re actually going out with a girl who looks like, well… you.”
She had agreed, telling herself that it needn’t be more than a one-time thing. If it turned out to be awful, she’d never have to do it again. But now, as she feels the rattling tracks beneath her, anxiety claws up the back of her throat. What had she been thinking? She can’t go through with this. She should back out. She’ll apologize to Andy, maybe blame it on a stomach bug. She’ll head back to Alma, call Calan and they’ll hang out, maybe binge watch Runaways on Hulu. Or she’ll curl up with a good book—she’s halfway into the new Nekesa Afia novel and loving it. Or maybe she’ll stay home and FaceTime with her mom—talking to Verena always puts a smile on Malaika’s face.
Her evening can be petrifying or peaceful. It is her choice.
But then an image pops in her mind: models clothed in her creations on a brightly lit runway. Whispers about the new Swiss designer. A cheering crowd. Giovanna’s endorsement. A spread in Vogue.
She has no choice. Not in any real sense.
Twenty minutes later, Malaika exits the train at Grand Central and struts to the Main Concourse, searching for the four-faced clock. She finds it on top of the information booth—why hadn’t Andy just told her to look for that? She is studying the constellation ceiling when a man approaches her.
“Are you Verena?” he asks.
Malaika nods, the sound of her mom’s name filling her with homesickness.
The man clears his throat and sticks out his hand. “I’m Simon.”
The sight of the man’s outstretched hand brings her a modicum of relief. Surely, if he were some sort of pervert, he’d try to kiss her?
Malaika shakes his hand, forcing herself to smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re, um, even more beautiful in person.” He seems almost as nervous as she is, which is both confusing and comforting. Simon is
